Al Fresco

As Feng took his evening stroll--a bit later than usual I might add--it was past twilight. Darkness had settled upon his hamlet and in the warm summer night air cicadas could be heard whirring from the elm trees. Water cascaded into the air from sprinklers over well groomed lawns and splashed onto the sidewalks. The starlight from above could be seen.

And as Feng walked he noticed a loosening in his bowels. Hot streaks shot through his intestines, signalling the imminence of diarrheal explosion. Tightening his sphincter, he increased his pace, hoping to make it home. But, alas, he was twelve blocks yet from home. Could he make it? Quickening his pace now, along the main road, puckering his asshole to an airtight seal he moved swiftly now, speedwalking.

But at certain point, a critical point of inflexion, next to a renter's cottage, it was too late. Striding across the close-cropped lawn up against the yew hedge, he dropped his shorts, squatted, and loosed a tremendous explosion of crap. For a long minute, a streaming torrent poured out of his asshole into a great steaming mound. Carlights illuminated him against the verdure, an incongruous sight: a middle aged man in an oxford cloth shirt taking a dump on the lawn of a house in a middle class suburb, al fresco.

A passerby saw him and ignored him. Feng abruptly drew up his shorts and began running, escaping from the scene like a boy completing a prank. Ashamed of himself, Feng collapsed in his cell, alas contemplating the raw animality of his act.